by Sam Barone
They reached the end of the harbor and continued around to the sea wall. Dozens of heavy cannons faced the open water, with smaller weapons stationed between them.
“Ships that dare to attack the Arsenal face more guns than the rest of the city. Venice, if you’re not aware, has never been invaded. In fact, the only serious attack came almost 200 years ago, in 1379, when the Genoese fleet appeared off the Lido and captured Chioggia. The siege lasted months, until the Genoans were trapped inside the harbor and starved into submission.”
“The winged lion of St. Mark saved the city.” Antonio knew the story.
“Yes, the saints were with us that time,” Donato agreed. “Or perhaps the Genoese were just unlucky.” He glanced up at the sun. “It’s time to return and see what the carpenters are doing.”
Turning away from the open sea, Antonio stared at the Arsenal’s interior. “There’s so much to see, Master Donato.”
“A little each day is best,” he agreed. “You’ll know the Arsenal well before you leave.”
“I think that would take years,” Antonio said. “But I know where I’d like to start – with your techniques for making and refining gunpowder.”
When they returned to Master Donato’s foundry, they found Master Palino there, observing the carpenters. Everyone was talking at once and it seemed that not a nail could be driven or a joint established without a voluble argument from those involved. Despite the apparent confusion, progress had been swift. These senior carpenters knew their craft, and they’d been joined by a journeyman who specialized in ropes and chains of all kinds. He’d brought several small winches which he tested with different types of rope, to make sure the drill bit could maintain a constant force against the solid metal tube.
“Tomorrow we’ll visit the forge where they cast the drill bits,” Donato announced. “We’ll see what Antonio can suggest to the metal workers. I’m sure forging the bits will take several days.”
“But you can use what we have until then,” Palino said. “I want to see if we can drill a straight bore, and I don’t care how many bits you crack doing it.”
When Donato decided it was time to leave, shadows were filling the foundry and the carpenters’ assistants moved about lighting lamps to continue their work. Antonio decided they still had several more hours labor if they were to meet their self-imposed deadline.
By the time Antonio reached the gate, most of the workers had gone for the day. Stepping past the guards, Antonio found Martin and Will waiting for him. “What brings you here?”
Martin fell into step on Antonio’s right, while Will lagged along behind. “We decided you need an escort. Bruno told us stories about pickpockets, and gangs of men attacking strangers. Seems you can get killed just walking the streets of Venice.”
Antonio had forgotten all about the Senior Apprentice and any possible danger. “I apologized to Olivio this morning.” He shrugged. “That should be the end of it.”
“Let’s hope so.” Martin had a trace of sarcasm in his voice. “But if he hires an assassin for a few ducats to kill you or beat you senseless while you walk home, there would be no blame falling on him. So we might be needed to keep you alive.”
Both men carried their swords and knives. While many Venetians went about armed, the presence of two guards for anyone not of the Venetian nobility attracted more than a few raised eyebrows.
Antonio started to protest, but Martin cut him off. “We’re staying at your side until we leave for England. You won’t even take a piss without one of us watching.”
“Or get laid,” Will offered from behind.
Antonio realized he wasn’t lagging behind, but guarding their backs. “Then, if I find a woman, I’ll show you how to do it.”
“You mean if you can afford one,” Martin said. “As a matter of fact, that’s when it’s easiest to kill anyone.”
Martin wasn’t jesting, Antonio realized. Nevertheless, their presence wouldn’t do any harm, and he did feel better with his friends around him.
Chapter 16
They dined in their new apartment that night. The meal was humble, just half a cooked goose and some vegetables, all that their new cook, Hostia, could accomplish at short notice. Hostia and her husband Salvio had already moved in, occupying one of the ground floor rooms. Salvio would act as steward of the house and help out with the cleaning while his wife cooked. Both were delighted at the chance to earn a few easy ducats helping the young Englishman.
Gianetta had introduced them when Antonio arrived. He warned them that their employment might be brief, but they shrugged off the possibility. When he asked Gianetta about the rent, she told him Uncle Marco had said not to bother, that it wouldn’t be worth collecting for such a short time.
“If you need to stay longer,” she said, “then you’ll have to speak to Uncle Marco.”
“My thanks to you both, Gianetta,” Antonio said.
“You may thank him yourself after dinner,” she said, smiling to show her appreciation that he’d called her by name.
During the meal, Antonio described the wonders of the Arsenal to Martin and Will. Interested in anything military, Martin had plenty of questions, especially when Antonio spoke of the galleys and cargos destined for Malta.
“We ate at a tavern today, and all anyone spoke of was the Turkish fleet. Rumors says it’s already afloat, with hundreds of ships of all kinds.”
“Master Donato says the Malta garrison is too small to hold out for long, that the Turks will capture the place within a few weeks.”
“Why aren’t the Venetians sending more troops and arms to help the Knights?”
“They only send what the Knights pay for,” Antonio said. “That’s the Venetian way, to sell arms to anyone. Besides, they’re afraid of offending the Sultan, if they supply too many guns or men. They’re worried that he might come here after his soldiers capture Malta.”
“So Venice hopes for a long siege at Malta,” Martin said, “long enough to wear out the Turks and keep their minds off Venice for another year or two.”
“Meanwhile the Turks keep expanding, picking off their enemies one by one,” Will said. “These Venetians are fools to think their turn won’t come. All you have to do is look at a map.”
Turkish outposts lay only a few miles away, across the Adriatic sea. “Perhaps the Venetians hope that the fall of Malta will wake up the rest of Europe,” Antonio said, “maybe lead to an alliance.”
Martin finished his wine. “Enough of talk, Antonio. You need to work on your swordplay.”
With a groan, Antonio got up and followed Martin. The entrance hall didn’t have enough room to swing a sword properly, but it was large enough for knife practice. The two soldiers took turns, attacking Antonio over and over. Martin started, scored the first thrust, and stepped back to let Will take his turn. It didn’t matter whether Antonio scored a point or not, they kept switching off. Soon Antonio’s arm trembled from the effort and his footwork slowed.
“You can’t fight just one man, Antonio,” Martin said, slipping aside after a clumsy counter. “In battle, you might kill one enemy, then have to fight another who won’t care how tired you are. KEEP YOUR GUARD UP! FIGHT!”
Again and again and again, until Antonio’s hand could barely hold the knife.
“Uncle Marco is waiting for Antonio, gentlemen,” Gianetta said.
He turned to the passageway. Antonio wondered how long she had stood there, watching from the shadows, and whether her interruption was meant to give him a rest.
“I’ll be right there, Gianetta,” he said, breathing hard. “Let me wash up first.”
She waited until he reappeared, then led him back into the main house and upstairs to Marco’s office.
“Please close the door, Gianetta,” Marco said. He waited until she left the room. “Master Donato is very impressed with your skills. He’s confident the drilling improvements will be all that you claim. He says you are a fine gunner.”
“Thank you, Uncle
Marco.” Perhaps you should have trusted your brother.
“What did you think of the Arsenal?”
Antonio lifted his hands and let them drop, the very Italian gesture conveying his feelings. “It’s unbelievable. The ships, the supplies, everything.”
“Still, if what Donato says about you is true, I don’t think there’s much that will help your father.”
“The gunpowder formula,” Antonio said without hesitation. “The techniques you use to refine and purify the saltpeter and sulphur are ingenious. And your use of a greater proportion of saltpetre is unknown in England.”
“Did Donato give you the formula?”
“No, of course not, Uncle.”
Every country used a slightly different mix of the three primary components – saltpetre, sulphur, and charcoal. The exact combination would be considered a military secret. “I’ll spare you the difficulty of learning it yourself,” Marco said. “It’s forty-four parts saltpetre, twenty-seven parts sulphur, and twenty-nine parts charcoal. But that formula will work only if you have the right ingredients, in highly pure concentrations, and can process them properly.”
“Master Donato showed me the 10 process steps,” Antonio said. Once he had seen the process, Antonio felt certain he could, given a month or two of trial, error, and testing, duplicate the Venetian production. “With time, I should be able to master their application. I believe we can replicate them in England.”
“Make sure of the quality of your ingredients. We keep only the finest Sicilian sulphur and saltpetre for ourselves. The lower-grade material is sold to others unaware of the difference.”
“Thank you, Uncle.” Antonio knew he’d just been given another enormous secret. The Venetian process and their intermix formula were more than enough to justify the journey to Italy. With this information, Nicolo could improve the accuracy and power of his guns even further.
“Officially, I’ve told you nothing,” Marco said. “But between us, Nicolo is my brother. And in the event that the Turks capture Venice, they would soon discover the true formula. A hot iron to the soles of some apprentice’s feet would provide them all they would need to know. At least this way, if Venice falls, England will have a better chance at survival.”
“Thank you, Uncle.” He didn’t know what else to say.
“There’s another reason,” Marco went on. “If the situation in the Mediterranean becomes grim, I will send Gianetta to Nicolo. There’s no one else I care for in Venice. Your guarantees of her safety and a proper upbringing are part of the price for the formula.”
“I know my father would accept responsibility for her even if you withheld the formula.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I wasn’t . . . people can change in 17 years, even brothers.”
“You think the situation in Malta is that grave?”
“The Turks invade and conquer entire countries. Their empire is always expanding. Malta is a tiny island, and the Knights have only a few thousand men.”
Marco shook his head. “When Malta falls, and it will, the Turks will have a bastion deep in the heart of the Mediterranean. Their ships will range everywhere. Sicily will fall, Venice will fall. Maybe not right away, but soon enough. Perhaps the Spanish can survive, but they’ll be encircled and driven from the inland sea.” Marco took a deep breath. “Yes, I believe the situation is that grave.”
“Why doesn’t Venice help Malta? Can’t the Signoria . . .”
“Our leaders have grown weak, cautious. They prefer to remain in the background, scheming and plotting. They think they can bribe the Sultan to ensure the Republic’s independence. Eventually they will lose everything.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No, nothing. Learn what you need, and return to England. The sooner the better. I will give you a letter of credit, to use for Gianetta’s care. I’ve already transferred some ducats to the German duchy of Luxembourg. I will rely on your honor to care for her. Make sure my brother Nicolo provides for her and marries her to a good and honorable man.”
***
Outside the office, Gianetta stood with her ear pressed to the door’s thick panel. Though both men kept their voices low, she possessed keen ears and managed to catch every word. When she heard her uncle dismiss Antonio, she darted down the hall and up the stairs without making a sound. Gianetta slipped into her room, and peered out from the darkness as Antonio trod down the hall to return to his own quarters. Closing the door, she lit a candle and undressed for bed.
The discussion she had just overheard didn’t trouble her. If danger befell Venice, she would gladly go to England. Wherever Antonio went, she wanted to be near him, be with him. From the first moment she’d glimpsed the young foreigner standing in her garden, Gianetta knew that she wanted to marry him, would marry him, with a certainty that defied reason.
Of course he thought she was still a child, but that didn’t matter. In a year or two, she would be old enough for marriage. Until she’d seen the handsome English stranger, she never had a single thought about the preening boys or foppish men she saw every day. Antonio was so different, in her eyes already a man despite his years. When she heard he’d fought in a battle at sea, her heart had jumped at the thought of the danger he’d faced.
And he was only a few years older. Such a match would be far better than marrying some dull old Venetian merchant or wealthy fat shopkeeper in his thirties or forties. As Marco’s niece, she would have a good dowry, more than enough to attract the interest of most Venetians. With regard to Antonio, Gianetta felt certain she could sway Uncle Marco to her side.
She sighed. There wasn’t much time. In a month or two, Antonio would leave for England. Before then, she needed to build a bond between them, the special bond of a man and a woman, so that when the time came, he would send for her. Already he dominated her thoughts, and she intended to spend as much time with him as she could. Gianetta understood she had much to discover about men and about love, but she intended to learn everything she needed.
Gianetta moved the candle to the side of the mirror, and started brushing her hair. Tonight she stared at her reflection in the flickering glass. Her slight figure could have been that of young boy, but she knew she would soon blossom into a maiden, perhaps within the year. Everyone told her she was pretty, so she hoped to grow into a beautiful woman.
Then he would not smile at her like a child. Antonio would regard her in the manner of a man yearning after a woman.
She wondered what it would be like to be in his arms, to feel his chest against hers. It would be difficult, but Gianetta would make him love her. Tonight the face that contemplated her from the mirror looked different. Something had changed in the last few days. She could see the child fading away.
What kind of woman will I become, she wondered? Will Antonio want me for a wife? What kind of husband will Antonio be? And England, it seemed so far away. Everyone in Venice considered it a barbarous place, and life there would be very different. But a Queen wore the crown and ruled the land, and that seemed like a favorable omen. Gianetta knew that Queen Elizabeth had assumed the throne at the age of 25. If a young woman could rule a country, then Gianetta could win over the heart of one of its subjects.
Blowing the candle out, Gianetta climbed into bed, hugging her knees to her chest. She said a prayer for Antonio, and one for her uncle. Only then did she offer one for herself, directed to St. Mark, as she drifted off to sleep. Please make me a woman. Please make him love me.
Chapter 17
The next 10 days passed quickly. Each morning Antonio rose at dawn, eager to reach the Arsenal and continue his work. A routine developed. He spent the morning and early afternoon with Master Donato or Palino. Five days after they finished building the drilling platform, they fired their first robinet made with a drilled barrel.
With the gun bolted to the floor and anchored in place, they fired a dozen shots at a target two hundred yards away, and when they finished firing, the double doors of Marco’s home
could have covered all the strikes. A crowd of carpenters and gunners had assembled to watch “the Englishman” test his new technique, and those who had wagered against Antonio’s success had to pay up.
The afternoons he spent with Master Palino, learning every detail of the process for creating and purifying gunpowder. The secret turned out to be the way the cakes were crushed and milled, then recompressed to half their original size. The resulting mill cakes were then broken down to form small granules of powder, all of approximately the same size. After that, the grains were sorted by size through a series of sieves, and readied for specific uses. That step was critical.
Gunpowder, Antonio knew, did not explode, but rather burned very rapidly. Evenness of the grains increased the speed of the burning, which enabled the full force of the “explosion” to transfer itself to the projectile.
The entire painstaking process required skilled and patient craftsmen to gradually transform the raw materials into fine gunpowder virtually indistinguishable from batch to batch. And all without blowing themselves or the foundry to pieces.
And even that didn’t end the process. Over long storage times, gunpowder tended to settle back into its constituents. The coarser the ingredients and the lower the quality, the more unstable or less effective the mixture became. So kegs had to be regularly inspected. Some just needed a delicate stirring, but others might need to be destroyed, another waste of precious resources.
“You would make an excellent gunpowder master,” Palino said. “I’ve already told everyone on the council that you are a fine craftsman.”
“I am proud to hear those words from you, Master Palino,” Antonio said.
At the end of the second week, after a long day working in the powder rooms, Master Palino asked Antonio to fetch a paper from his desk. Surprised at the menial request, Antonio walked through the Arsenal workers, most already heading for their homes. In Palino’s office, Antonio found the single sheet of paper resting under a paperweight. It contained three words and three numbers – the same intermix formula that Marco had given him. Master Palino, probably for the same reasons as his uncle, wanted Antonio to have the formula.